Understandin’

Inspired by the art of Paul Dykman

By Michael Hartsog

Nine winters now, I’ve carried this British

musket ball in my hip, and this Spring I’m
feelin’ its presence ever more painful. The
Battle of New Orleans is a distant memory, as
my mind and soul have been renewed livin’
under this great mount’n peak on the banks of
the Swan. This mild winter brought more fur
pelts and hides than I’ve seen since passin’
through St Louis on route to Jefferson’s new
territory. General Jackson pass’t on reports
from his friend, Clark, thet the land of the
Flathead was overrun with beaver and various other critters. The idea of trappin’ in these
beautiful and treacherous lands weighed heavy on me.

Raised up in the mount’ns of New York in a regular English-like home, my learnin’ was led by
my mum who had the practice of my four older sisters. Mum pass’t when I was 15 and the
learnin’ responsibilities became my Pop’s, with lessons on how to skin furs and trade with the
French and Mohawk. Trappin’ is all I’ve ever known, ‘cept killin’ Britts. Anyhows, this winter
brought too many pelts to carry to the tradin’ post myself with only three hosses. The extra in
this haul will trade me a might fine pack mule, but I gotta git’em to the fort first.

Four years ago, when the trees were lettin’ go

of their leaves, the great Salish warrior, Long
Wolf, put his two tepees up the bench above
the rapids, as the rest of his people were movin’
South. I was greatly concerned, seeing them
tepees tuck’t in the trees, with all the willa
bushes half hidin’ their where’bouts. They
know’d of my own lodgin’ ever since I built ‘er,
as they pass’t up and down the river movin’
camps. I never had any issues with the Salish
people, but now they were settin’ up camp
within yellin’ distance. I know this cuz I hear
‘em hollarin’ near every evnin’.

Not long after they set up camp, I found his youngest savage hung up in a beaver lodge, wrong
side up in the deep end of the tributary between our lodgin’s. Just as I was pullin’ ‘em out of the
water thet damn’d warrior put an arrow in my shoulder. If it weren’t for his woman, he’d have
flung a second and planted me for good. As fate would have it, during thet year’s snow melt

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when the water ran high, Long Wolf and his two little savages found me up the Piper tributary
trap’t in a dern’d skrat hole. Rather than stick another arrow in me, they obliged the favor by
pullin’ me to freedom.

I don’t know what got into me when I return’t my own oblig’d thet day by carry’n the hind quarter
of a wapiti to his woman and the old warrior, Red Feather, as they gather’d water on the sand
bar a stone’s throw from my lodge. It’s still queer to bathe in the same stretch of water as the
savages, but we appear to be git’n’long fine now. Lookin’ out from my shelter this cold morn’,
the snow runs hard off the mount’n. Not savvy’n the idea, I know I must join partners with Long
Wolf to get this load of fur to the traders for a mule and summer supply.

The day he and his sons pull’t me from thet gosh dern’d scrat hole, he was dragin’ near a dozen
stiff beaver on a scrap’t lodge pole he likely stole from one of the trap’t critter’s lodge. On
occasion, over these last three winters, Long Wolf would prove to be a far superior trap hand
than I. From where I stand I can see more fur hangin’ from trees round his tepees than the sight
of the trees themselves. It’s gonna take all we got to move our furs out east to the fort on the
Yellowstone.

My first recollection of communicatin’ with savages was in my ninth year. My father and I had a
pack of hosses stack’t with skins as tall as three of me. Hearn’ the French were movin’ West to
the Great Lakes for trade with the Huron, and were giv’n more for a skin than they gave in our
parts, he bought the services of an old Iroquois Medicine Man to guide us and do our talkin’.
The Huron and the Iroquiox had been fuedin’ over skins for pert near a hundr’t years, but he
know’d the Medicine Men weren’t in the fight.

The old man’s face was wrink’t like leather ain’t suppos’t do, and his eyes so black you could
see the entirety of the underworld deep inside. English wasn’t in his quiver but he spoke with
his hands where even a young, pale skin’d buck like me could understand. Even so, savage
diplomacy between war’n tribes proved more than a trouble for our party. My father and thet ol’
Medicine Man went from negotiatin’ furs, black powder and blankets to talkin’ me back out of a
band of renegades thet had me tied to a tree, git’n ready to build a fire on top my moccasins
with me in ‘em! Those dern’d savages snuck me in the night without so much as breakin’ a twig
and I wasn’t about to give ‘em up with one of their blades kissin’ my neck. Right ‘bout the time I
was start’n to cook, thet ol’ Medicine Man talked me outta the fire and secured safe passage to
the fort on the edge of the great Huron lake, no one havin’ta give up their spirit.

Those dern’d Indians still get their enjoyment in puttin’ a sneak on me, last time be’n when the
leaves last fell from the red and orange willa’s thet surround the water hole between our two
lodgin’s. Thet ol’ warrior Red Feather snuck me while I was bathin’ in nothin’ ‘cept my skin.
Rather than stick me with an arrow, he strip’t to his nothin’ and joined me in the dam’d up crick.
Neither of us gave words for too long, makin’ it all the more bunkum. After warshin’ himself
thorough, the leathery ol’ warrior began communicatin’ with his hands, like the Medicine Man of
my distant memory. He convey’d his legend as a great warrior, their travels between summer
huntin’ grounds and winter ranges. Then his hands spoke of trouble with his son Long Wolf and

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the great Chief Victor, and how they were made to become their own tribe, apart from the
Salish. He made motions thet led me to understand the two tepees were raised on the bench
nearby so we can survive our plight together.

Departin’ the bathe on my side the crick, he give me a pipe carved from birch and then snuck
his way back across to his skins and tepee. Not another moon pass’t, thet dern’d ol’ warrior
snuck me again offer’n a sack of tobacca for the winter. I’m obliged but still not savvy’n of a
warrior’s ability to show up outta nowhere, even a friendly one. The prospects of survival with
Red Feather, Long Wolf and their new tribe sat awkwardly with me over the last few snowy
months, even as my skins began pile’n up on their stretches from trappin’ ways learn’t from
spy’n Long Wolf.

The pains of chisel’d flint stuck in my shoulder conflict with the

pipe I’m smokin’ this cold morn’. I once again require the
services of a native in these parts, but I reckon thet ol’ warrior
know’d it in the crick thet day. The tributary runs angry as I
cross the swollen crick and slowly make my way through the
bud’n willa’s toward the still snow pack’t peak of the Swan and
the Indian camp below it. Thoughts on the treachery of this
land we live in and the fragility of my existence swirl through
my mind. This realization gives me solace in considerin’
partnership with Long Wolf.

He’s a hard man, a great warrior in his own right, with a general
dislik’n for pale men. His tall, hard jawline, high cheekbones
and overgrow’d nose show a fierce count’nance no matter the
occasion. His braid hair, as black as the darkest night, adorn’d
with two eagle feathers earn’d in battle match the mane of his giant stallion, a handsome beast.
Addin' to the menace of the young warrior, his stead wears a red drapin’ head dress decor’d
with porc’pine quills. Long Wolf was already saddled when I arrived in his camp, bearin’ a gift of
tan deer hide from last year’s hunt as a peace offer’n. In a single motion his dismount brought a
drawn club made of bone, sinew and stone, no doubt to test my resolve. He gladly accept’d my
offer, snatchin’ the deerskin from my arms as he turn’t toward the door of his tepee. With a
simple nod of his head, he order’d me to follow.

Sit’n round a warm fire thet smolder in the center of the large round space, I offer’t a smoke of
the last of my tobacco, unknow’n if it would be oblig’d or an act of war. The ol’ warrior lift’d my
pipe with both hands, bow’d his head, and pulled deeply from its bowels. As the pipe, and
another with a much stronger effect were pass’t round, only the sound of burnin’ tobacco and a
light Spring breeze through the pines outside could be heard. My mind wander’d between the
effects of our pipes and the worry of how I would ask for help from Long Wolf when we shar’t no
language. As if he could read my thoughts in the smoke we shared, Red Feather, made
motions thet I strangely understood as, “Furs many!”

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“Yes, many furs, both you ‘n me,” I sheepishly sign’d in reply, my arms open wide to the two
warriors. “We must carry them to the fort on the Yellowstone,” pointin’ to the East.

Long Wolf made fierce objection, his arm closest to me gestur’n wildly across the sky,
emphatically defined by a loud verbal “NO!”

“English!?!” surpris’t and worried thet I lost my opportunity. Long Wolf continued with wild hand
and arms a wavin’, a loud Salish voice, and endin’ with paintin’ his face with ash from the still
hot fire - he made his case strong - “NO East! Blackfeet!!”

Stories of Blackfoot war parties have been spread throughout the northern frontier. Small bands
of bloodthirsty warriors on patrol across the range East of the Rocky Mount’ns, cuttin’ off all
tradin’ routes to the fort on the Yellowstone River. He continued to waive his arms and hands,
stop’n on occasion to pull from a pipe, he signed, “Go North. Furs trade at fort on Kootenai,” as
he pounded his chest victoriously.

Weakness in my voice push’t aside, with my own meaningless hand and arm wavin’, I
proclaim’d out loud, “We will go North ‘n trade our furs at Kootenai!” I point’d straight at Long
Wolf, “with you!!” also poundin’ my chest for extra effect.

Before Long Wolf could grasp what I just propos’d, the ol’ warrior, Red Feather, with loud voice
said, “YES!”

“English?!?”

Both startled, and thoughts entering into foggy places unknow’d, we sat and star’d quietly at
Red Feather as he pack’t another pipe with the more heady tobacca and began pullin’ from it.
In a quiet and defeated voice, Long Wolf reply’d to his father, “No.” The ol’ leather face’d man
drew another breath from the pipe, gently look’n into the eyes of his son. With both hands, he
offer’d his son my pipe, and said, “Ki,” understandin’ to mean “Yes” in the native Salish
language. Long Wolf, this time with a little more conviction again said, “LUT!!” his eyes fixed
defiantly on his father.

Uncertain about how affairs such as these end in the Salish culture, but with my opportunity at
hand, I start’d wav’n my arms and hands, and beat my chest, “I will go North ‘n trade my furs at
Kootenai with you,” pointin’ at Long Wolf, “Ki?!?”

“Yes!” Responded the old warrior.

Long Wolf, in deep thought, for a brief moment star’d into the recently stok’d fire, and then, with
a sigh of defeat, “Ki...”

I understood. We agreed through more hand signs and draws from our pipes, to depart on the
eve of the full moon in three days. There is much to prepare for the journey ahead of us.

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Fort Kootenai is a seven day ride with the load we’re haulin’. Located on the big bend of the
Kootenai River, we either take a route thet follows the Stillwater, or cross over the Salish
Mount’ns to the West. Once we pass the northern boundaries of the valley where the Swan
enters the lake of the Salish, no matter the way, is slow through thick, overgrown pine forests.
We’ll camp tomorra night at the lake Salish say, “has Whitefish.” There, we’ll hav’ta make our
next agreement.

This mornin’ was colder than the last few, with a stiff wind up the Swan from the South. There
were no stars showin’ and the great mount’n peak behind us hid under dark, grey clouds. A
blanket of snow laid down overnight reveals an early mornin’ visit by a large griz thet pass’t by
my lodge. Normally, my day would be spent in hunt for the maker of those tracks, but today, we
depart North, then West, toward the Kootenai.

Loadin’ the hosses down with pelts, food and

supplies, my mind swirls around the dreadful
thoughts of survivin’ the next two weeks in
silence with an Indian warrior who has already
put one arrow in me and is be’n made to partner
with me in this venture. I‘ve pack’t my way to the
Kootenai fort and back twice before in need of
Winter supply. The route over the Salish
Mount’ns is rugged and dangerous, but the more
establish’t trail up through the Tobacca Valley to
the Kootenai River adds two extra days. Long
Wolf and I are already in disagreement on the
topic and hosses have yet to be mount’d. Long
Wolf crossed the crick above the beaver dam, his hosses load’d down, same as mine. Without
words, we set off North, followin’ the Swan to the lake of the Salish, known as Flathead.

The snows under the great mount’n peak above our lodgin’s, on the banks of the Swan, gave
way to drier grounds in the wide valley South of our first camp, but the day's drive was still cold
and wet, havin’ cross’d three swollen rivers before makin’ camp on the shores of the “lake thet
has Whitefish.” Aside from an occasional hand sign, for which I had no words, the warrior
offer’t me silence, and I had no more to say on the day myself. Judgin’ from the snow pack thet
covers the sacred icy mount’ns of the Blackfeet to our East and the Salish range to the West,
we had some discussin’ to do about direction. I recon’d the best way to make this talk fruitful
was to start with fish and tobacca. The waters of the lake are already open with plentiful
whitefish patrol’n for early Spring sustenance. A simple basket trap made from red willa yielded
three fish thet I offer’d Lone Wolf as he sat down beside the fire between our bedrolls. After a
few draws from our pipes and a quiet meal of fish and bread, we turn’d our attention to
tomorrow’s route. My Indian companion calmly sign’d his desire to go up and over the Salish
Mount’ns, the shorter, more difficult route. I’m sure amid all of the arm and hand signs I’m
strangely familiar with but don’t yet understand, he explain’d his reasons. It was in thet moment

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I began to fully understand the importance of our newly form’d and fragile alliance. I’m compel’d
to trust Long Wolf with my life, an existence I was hardly savvy’n to endure. As a soldier, I
entrust’d my life to stranger men, mostly out of necessity to live another day. This here
situation’s no different. I fought back my tension and set’ta understandin’ all thet my warrior
companion was tryin’ to say.

Long Wolf’s speech went on and on. At one point, in the middle of his proposition he pick’t up a
fish say’n, “qaqxʷlx.” I have no idea what his sounds were, but gather’d he was speakin’ of the
fish I had caught earlier. Upon one of his longer pauses, I held up my fish and said, “​​qaqxʷlx -
FISH!” to which he reply’d, “FISH!” The connection was deep and profound for both of us. We
understood each other, even for a brief moment.

I put my fish down, and spoke to Long Wolf with new signs I, myself had no understandin’ of. I
draw’d maps in the sand and point’d toward the orange and pink sky to our West, “We go over
the Salish Mount’ns, as you say.” As we drew in smoke, with an occasional nod to one another,
no other words were exchang’d ‘tween us, each left to contemplate our unlikely agreements and
the fear of their significance.

The morning frost was hard on the ground under our feet as we pack’t camp by the light of our
fire. For nourishment, my partner serv’d a handful’a dried roots, berries and moss he said was
“hopop.” I offer’d him hot chicory water and elk jerk. Back on the hosses, we turn’d our tails
toward the sun risin’ over the jag’d, snow cap’t peaks to the East and broke into the thick pine
forest thet would be our adversary for the next five days.

Three moons pass’t with little more than a slow draft through cold forest and mute conversation.
On occasion, nature offer’d us quiet observations thet broke into argumentative exchanges,
bringin’ bout a new vocabulary ‘tween us.

Deer - sƛ̓aʔčínm
Bird - skəkʕákaʔ
Sun - čkʷəkʷlal̓

Most disconcertin’ were the fresh foot prints of a large griz bear - skm̓xist - in the early mornin’
snow - čm̓qʷaqʷ - thet gave the clear’st speakin’ lesson of the day. Both my moccasins were
outmatch’d by his - this one is a giant! Almost immediately the hosses began to act with a
sense of angst and despair. My partner swung his outfit round, relinquishin’ the lead to ride
longside mine, no doubt to increase our girth in an effort to match sizes with our unseen enemy.

As a young’n, my father gave me a pair of Matlock pistols thet now stood at the ready, along
with a Bessie gave to me by Colonel Hayne upon joinin’ up with his regiment. He acquir’d it
from a red coat thet no longer had need of it in this world. No tellin’ where Long Wolf picked up
his Bessie, but it laid sideways cross his saddle, at the ready, muzzle aim’d away from me. My
comfort in his restraint was currently overwhelm’d by the trepidation brought on by the company
with whom we now shar’d our otherwise quiet, snow cover’d pine forest.

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Now thankful for my partner’s skill to sneek, we made a slow and steady way up and over the
pass into the Wolf Creek drainage. There he was, in the midday sun. A giant boar, at least 600
pounds, wallowin’ in the Spring mud along the willa’s on the far side of the crick below. The
wind in our face was to our favor, along with, I’m sure, the smell of the winter kil’t bull moose thet
lay beside him. With a strong desire to leave the griz to its curr’nt interests, we turn’d North, up
the ridgeline to find another portage downwind of our original course. The hours pass’t as we
slowly rode ridge to ridge put’n as much distance between us and the griz, yet, holdin’ to our
destination as best we could. Camp thet night was three drainages in the wrong direction.

Mornin’ came quickly with another layer of fresh snow, already runnin’ off on the muddy forest
floors in the warmth of the early day sun. Camp pack’t, we set out early to make the fort before
sundown. All thoughts were kep’ta self, mine battlin’ with the griz and an intense concern on
how my partner and I are gonna trade once we arrive at the fort. Long Wolf will surely be
want’d, and possibly recogniz’d as the Salish warrior he is. The serenity of my worry was
instantly jar’d by a thunderous crash. A herd of elk breakin’ both forest and thoughts thet lay’d
in front of us. Comin’ to my senses, I found myself dislodg’d from hoss and wrong side up in
downfall and brush, my spook’t outfit rotatin’ in place, unsure of where to run.

My demeanor and position was such thet laughter emanat’d from my Salish companion.
Uncertain of any better way, I join’d him in amusement as he reach’t down from his high hoss to
help me out of my paralyzin’ predicament. Back on the ride, my concerns return’d as worry, and
over the next two ridges I set about tryin’ to convince Long Wolf to stop and set up camp above
the Kootenai River, outside sentinel view of the fort. He saw in my eyes somethin’ was a’miss.
This evenin’, more than before, we set camp with urgency. By the light of a hid’n camp fire, I
began an act of wavin’ arms and hands, dirt drawin’s and directions, all to convince Long Wolf of
my worries - the soldiers and fur traders of the Kootenai will not trade with him fairly, or worse,
will savvy takin’ his life for nothin’. Late into the darkness we acted out our disagreements with
passion and conviction, myself, in the end, weary with head in hands, unable to communicate.
Gatherin’ up enough energy to start another round, I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. I look’d
up, met with a newly familiar countenance of understandin’ and a slight nod of compromise.

Our plan began to form, with dirt glyphs and hand signs, we agreed thet we would pack the
hosses in such a way, all of our furs and hides were hitch’d to one outfit for the next day’s final
drive. I would leave before sunrise and Long Wolf would retreat to our previous camp, away
from the day scouts thet were sure to pass by. Late thet evenin’ I met back up with my partner,
packin’ an extra mule and enough supply to survive the summer months under the great
mount’n peak.

The journey home was without trial or tribulation. Offers from nature to understand each other’s
words were follow’d by quiet camps, smoke and jerked elk. Five days later, as we came upon
the thaw’d banks of our lodgin’s, we halt’d for a final smoke of our pipes. The pause was short,
but the most cherish’d of all, as Long Wolf learn’d me the Salish word “slax̌t,” we both now
understand to mean “friend.”

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